


Pocket full of posies (We all fall down)

by Kangoo



Series: Miscellaneous Warcraft Stuff [2]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: (kind of), Angst, Blood, Character Study, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt No Comfort, Kael'thas-centric, M/M, Not a whole lot of actual story considering, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 16:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10857942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: The day Illidan waltzes into Kael’thas’ life, burning with righteous fury and an all-consuming desire for revenge, is the day Kael’thas takes his first step toward his grave.





	Pocket full of posies (We all fall down)

**Author's Note:**

> In which i’m still looking for a reason to Kael’thas joining the Legion, and pain will make people do desperate things to make it stop
> 
> Unbeat'ed and, honestly, not even proofread. Eh.

Years of war and senseless deaths have made him come to the painful realization that he is just as mortal as anyone else, no matter how powerful his magic, how long his life, how royal his upbringing. And yet nothing has been as instrumental in his actual death as the day Illidan Stormrage waltzed in his life, burning with righteous fury and an all-consuming desire for revenge.

  


The day Kael’thas met Illidan is the day he took his first step toward his grave.

  


.

  


It only takes a few months for Kael’thas to start coughing flowers.

  


It happens as he is bent over the warmap, looking for a pattern in the apparitions of portals, anything that could give them an edge against the Legion. His master is arguing with one of his advisors — Kael forgot his name and, frankly, with how the conversation is going, it is unlikely to be a relevant information later on — over something stupid like troops’ morale, maybe, he’s not sure. He stopped listening a while ago.

  


Then, Illidan stands up to his full, intimidating height, wings tight against his back in what Kael’thas has come to recognize as a sign of irritation. He steps back, turns on his heels and walks away without another word.

  


“But, sir,” Another advisor, Azina Starsworn, calls out, “We have not yet discussed of today’s matters!”

  


He stops and looks at her like she is stupid in a way even he cannot comprehend. He has perfected a look of patronizing boredom through decades of having a complex of superiority and months of dealing with the dimness of his renegades troops, and even Kael feels like a dim child when he sees that expression on his master’s face. Azina recoils, and something protective briefly flares up in his chest when he sees regret and fear twisting her face, one of the few familiar amongst the demons and traitors-to-be of the Outlands.

  


“I trust Kael’thas to take care of them for me,” He simply says. There is a touch of derision here, like this is a task under him, to be relegated to his underlings, his most loyal minions, but it feels like trust anyways.

  


He is barely out of the room before Kael’thas doubles over coughing. Azina half-runs to his side, using his ill-timed illness to find back her composure, or at least to forget about the existence of Illidan for the time being. She lightly touches his shoulder with the tip of her fingers. It is maybe an even clearer sign of the gravity of the episode that he does not shrug it off, and she appears slightly more worried when she realizes this.

  


It subsides shortly, but leaves him as shaken and raw as if it had gone on for hours. When he manages to breath, slow and deep, he feels leaves flutter in his chest, and the realization that this is a far worse condition than the magic withdrawal he took it for ruins any chance the breathing exercise had of steadying him.

  


Flower petals are scattered on the table under him, golden-yellow like those that used to grow under his window in Quel’thalas, splattered with droplets of blood.

  


But the world does not stop for anyone, and there are still things that he needs to take care of, things that aren’t petals and flowers growing in his lungs. So he straightens up and looks at the faces of the other advisors, each either bewildered or calculating. They are already out for his blood, thinking of all the ways they could use this against him. Even Azina, as concerned as she seems, would sell him to the devil — or Illidan, which isn’t that far off — if she thought it could be in her favor.

  


“Well,” He says, like nothing happened, and sweeps the petals off the table. “What else is there to be discussed? We do not have all day.”

  


There is pity in Azina’s eyes, but when she opens her mouth, it is only to give him the full details of the many issues that need his attention. He is thankful for that, if anything else.

  


.

  


Slowly, relentlessly, it gets worse.

  


It starts with a tickling in his chest, his throat, and he’s not quite sure when it becomes something he can’t forget about, something he can’t ignore. When the slight coughing begins leaving him struggling for breath and shivering, tears in his eyes and blood on his lips. It just does. It’s how those things usually go: an insidious evolution from bad to worse that catches you by surprise, until you start counting the day you have left.

  


Still, Kael’thas endures.

  


There are days when he can barely stands, legs weak and breath labored. Days when leaving his bed is like fighting a losing battle against himself, when he can fuel his magic with his own blood simply by drawing in a breath that is slightly too deep.

  


These days are more and more frequent as time passes and still they all find him silent at Illidan’s side, or bent over a map twice as bleak as his health. Exhaustion is written over the lines of his face, in the sickly pallor of his skin and the shaking of his hands, but his voice is strong and his gaze unwavering when he faces the other advisors and command them to launch their troops into another suicide mission.

  


He survives. He endures.

  


Kael’thas fights his uphill battle day after day and leaves behind a trail of blood and the ashes of countless golden petals.

  


He makes it work, for however long he has left.

  


.

  


“Are you alright, Kael’thas?” Illidan asks distractedly, barely distracted from the war map by the awful coughing coming from his general.

  


“Yes, my lord,” Kael’thas says smoothly. He rubs his chest, mouth twisted in pain, and then goes back to planning like nothing happened, if not for the quick wave of his hand that reduces to ashes the flowers scattered on it. His breath rattles audibly and smells too sweet, like crushed petals and blood. The smell in hauntingly familiar to Illidan, reminiscent of long-lost battlefields.

  


“That’s not a sound that I would associate with ‘fine’,” He says. “I cannot have you performing at anything but your best, Kael’thas.”

  


“I promise you, this… condition has not been affecting my abilities in the slightest.” Kael’thas tries his best to not look up and stares uncomfortably at the map.  It would not help to go into another fit just as he is arguing on their unimportance, after all.

  


“Still, do get yourself checked by a healer when you have time.”

  


He does not reply, and Illidan takes it as compliance. After that, he puts efforts into hiding the sickness eating his lungs as much as he possibly can from his master. It requires him to make even less eye contact with Illidan than he had been managing lately and a truly surprising amount of ducking into empty rooms — Illidan seems to be everywhere, for how little they actually see each other — but he makes it work. He always does.

  


.

  


It’s not very hard to read the questions in the stares of the other advisors, the faint condescension in the way their eyes go from him to Illidan to him again with a knowing look.

  


He would defend himself — his more than questionable choice — but what is there to say?

  


They are all out for his blood, ready to strike him down from his advantageous place at Illidan’s side as soon as he shows a sign of weakness. It doesn’t take much to make them traitors to their prince. He could hardly answer their curious gaze with the _truth_.

  


His position is all he has left. He can’t let them take it away from him.

  


Truth is, he _could_ have this pesky vegetation ripped out of his lungs. All he’d have to do is to go to Illidan and tell him this ‘condition’ of his is fatal, and only few can cure him from it — he does not doubt a second that the man would bring one of those few to Outlands, if only to keep the blood elves united under the Sunstrider banners and at his command. Hell, even one of the healers they have in the Temple could probably help.

  


But those flowers would take his feelings with them, and there are a hundred ways this could be a terrible thing. Without his devotion to Illidan, Kael’thas would no longer have any reason to stay at his service. And he needs Illidan, to save the blood elves from their all-consuming hunger if nothing else.

  


(He often wonders if his master will ever make good on that particular promise, but he dislikes the most probable answer.)

  


To be honest — he can afford it, near death as he is — he is afraid of what he would be, were he not serving Illidan. The demon hunter gave him purpose, gave him a way of saving his people that was so _easy_ to choose at the time. Kael’thas is afraid of realizing the mistakes he has made, both in following him and after. He is afraid of many things, which he puts great efforts in ignoring and hiding under his misplaced feelings for Illidan.

  


He is afraid of losing those, too.

  


.

  


He finds that he values his own life more than he thought.

  


It is a realization that comes too late.

  


All he tastes, all he smells, all he feels, all he _sees_ is blood — in his mouth, his throat, his lungs, on his fingers, smeared on his skin. He finds flower petals in his hair, his clothes, on the ground, in his food. He doesn’t have to worry about meeting Illidan’s eyes anymore: his sight is barely more than darkness and blurry splashes of — _red_ — colors and movements.

  


They barely ever cross paths anymore, anyway — Illidan running around on some secret project and Kael’thas, unaware of his master’s plans and trying to muster up enough energy to pretend he has things under control for a few moments, just enough to give orders without the reassuring weight of Illidan’s gaze on his back, to sort through the hundred problems they face, to hold together their crumbling forces just a little longer.

  


He is fighting every second to keep his head above the water and it’s a battle he is losing.

  


He is drowning.

  


He is _dying_ , and there’s nothing he can do about it.

  


(Is there?)

  


.

  


It ends when Kil’jaeden strikes in the form of an offered hand and promises of making the pain stops.

  


He is weak, barely capable of holding a sword anymore and still leading his men like nothing is wrong. Hiding his wheezing breath and shaking hands from his soldiers and his uncaring master has taken its toll on him as much as the sickness itself and he is _tired,_  so tired of dying.

  


He accepts.

  


(Of course he does. Haven’t you heard? You can never trust a blood elf not to choose self-preservation. It’s in their nature to survive, against all odds and morals.)

  


He doesn’t care about Illidan anymore. Let him die, if it’s what it takes. Kael’thas will slit his throat himself to make the pain stop.

  


.

  


There is a hole where the flowers used to be, but he breathes fine. He is _fine_.

  


It doesn’t hurt anymore. It doesn’t feel like anything. It’s been a long time since he has felt anything.

  
  
He thinks he might miss it, sometimes — feeling. But then he remembers how nothing ever hurt like love did, not even when Kil’jaeden burned the flowers right from his lungs, and he it doesn’t matter as much anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon: Kael’thas dislikes being touched, especially in a casual setting. It seems fitting.
> 
> Random idea I didn't know how to put in the actual thing: this is a disease that didn't exist when Illidan was still free and less insane. If he knew, he would do something about it – probably uses it to his advantage or at least prepare for Kael'thas' death in advance because he's a bit of a dick like that. It's likely he would force Kael'thas to get it cured because he knows he has arguments for him to stay beyond simple feelings, and a mage/leader/strategist like Kael is kind of priceless.


End file.
